Breathe
by derpette-Waffle
Summary: fem!Phan, inspired by TFIOS - "I'm kinda new here, and wasn't really feeling up to dodgeball on my first day, so I figured I'd keep walking." She stared down at the ground, clearly avoiding eye contact with me or just feeling awkward looking at the tubes on my face. "I was wondering if you wanted some company."


**PIPPA'S POV**

When I was born, Mr. and Mrs. Finch were told that their precious little girl wouldn't last the first few weeks of life. Her lungs were underdeveloped and however long they wanting to keep her in the NICU, she would die soon enough. That left the middle-aged couple with a pretty serious dilemma. Already burdened with two young children and having never wanted their third, Mr. and Mrs. Finch decided to do the merciful thing and let their newborn die on her own terms, and not prolong her suffering trying to keep her alive.

And so the tragic case was named Pippa and placed in hospice care. For a while, Mr. and Mrs. Finch went and saw their daughter whenever they could. But weeks went by and their visits became more and more infrequent, until they stopped showing up altogether. "We can't bear to see her anymore."

But then in a miraculous plot twist, Pippa did survive to a month old. And even when the pulmonary experts postponed her expiration date, she gave them her tiny middle finger. She made it to two months, and three, and by four months she was breathing herself. Not breathing well –her lungs were only absorbing about one third of the oxygen intake— but it went down as remarkable improvement. Astonished at the little baby's survival to her fourth month, Dr. Massey went to contact the Finches straight away.

She called over and over, over the span of days, and by the tenth it was really looking like Mr. and Mrs. Finch weren't gonna come back for their little girl.

I was put into foster care, and stayed there a while. I was too young to figure it out then, but most couples looking to adopt were looking for a perfect baby that had been tragically tossed aside; preferably one that didn't come with an oxygen tank included. I wish I could talk when I was being passed from family to family –I could promise them I'd be a talented and intelligent little angel. I couldn't promise to keep the promise, but little baby Pippa ex-Finch wanted to be loved.

Fortunately, at eight months old I was finally put in the hands of two great men who would always love me and take care of me, and I was finally a happy little baby with a home.

Skip ahead a few years. I'm fourteen years old now, and puberty has been okay to me. By most standards I'm attractive if a bit pudgy, and a bit too nerdy for any crushes I've had. It's okay, though; I got over them pretty quickly, and would always move on to another unattainable specimen.

I grew up with my fathers convincing me that no matter what anyone ever said about me, I was a beautiful and perfect girl who was dealt some hard cards in life (like I guess a two of hearts and four of spades), and just keep a good poker face and know that those kind of people meant nothing to me. Maybe I'd just never heard what people say behind my back, as I tend to keep to myself, but no one's ever bothered me about my "condition." But maybe I'm a self-fulfilling prophecy: I think people don't say shit about me because I don't listen, and maybe they pity me for that so they don't say anything. I'd rather have their indifference than their pity, and as long as none of them said anything, I could live in my blissfully ignorant little world. I guess that's a pretty good deal.

Moving on.

They say high school is the best time of your life. I reckon the person who said so was not only unbelievably attractive and popular, but went bald at twenty, wife left for a younger guy, and had a sad rest-of-existence. And I'd pity the poor fellow if his retrospective wasn't so spectacularly played out now.

My schedule for my first day of high school read as follows: chemistry, phys. ed., English, social studies, Spanish, art, lunch, algebra, creative writing. It definitely wasn't ideal because that was way too many classes and lunch was far too late in the day, but if I went and tried to have classes moved around I would probably just be caught in a never ending cycle of unanswered correspondences. The guidance counselors liked to put off everything until it was too late so they didn't have to actually work; I was on to them, though.

In chemistry the teacher didn't bother with the first-session tradition of introducing the course and then waiting out the clock. We actually did start doing some actual work and learning things, and it might've been interesting if it wasn't too early and I wasn't too tired to focus.

P.E. always made for an awkward first day. By school board mandate, I was required to take it. Most of those classes would be spent awkwardly sitting on the sidelines, waving at any friends I had and sort of wishing I could join in but also making the best of my break. I always tried to be optimistic.

I had Coach Sanders, who I'd heard in middle school lore that she just makes you run the track until you puke. But she would have to listen to my medical excuse pass, or risk suspension, right?

We usually weren't expected to change on the first day, but we'd picked up our locks and were assigned lockers early, and had gotten a letter to home saying to bring gym clothes on the first day, so we'd have no excuses.

I never changed for class. There was no point, really, I couldn't do anything that would require athletic wear, except a pair of sneakers. So I was always the first one in the gym, taking a spot on the bleachers. I tried to make myself familiar with this seat where I'd probably spend most second periods.

One by one my classmates trickled in, all still tired at barely eight-thirty in the morning. Coach came in and introduced herself, and immediately started going down the roster. She looked up with every name called to make note of faces and to mark if they'd changed or not.

"Philippa Lester?"

"Present," I said from front and center.

She looked down at me, eyes sharp. "You didn't change?"

"I have a note."

"And your backpack?" (where I carried my tank.)

"It's in the note."

She grunted and continued on.

After roll call she brought us outside. It was nice and not too warm for September, so the students could complain too much when Sanders told them to run a mile before dodgeball. Plus, dodgeball.

I approached carefully, like I was gonna stick my hand in a lion's mouth. "Coach?" I squeaked once everyone was already running.

She turned to me, as if amazed the I hadn't already taken off. "Yeah?"

I handed her the little slip of paper saying I couldn't do this shit. She read it over, skimming the explanation, and then looked back at me.

"Can you walk?" she asked, motioning to my functioning legs.

"Yeah, I can walk."

"Then go ahead and walk."

And with that matter settled, I did start walking.

Everyone was finished running by the time I made it back around, and though even after a quarter mile I was already winded, Coach turned to me and said, "Keep walking, Lester. I'll call you in before the bell."

I groaned quietly and stomped off to go another lap. Everybody went inside, except for one, who stayed behind to come after me.

My shoulder was tapped and I spun around, ready to karate chop whatever arm had been the culprit.

A girl with short brown-and-pink hair held her hands up in surrender. "Hey, hey, sorry to scare you!"

I hiked my backpack strap further up my shoulder. "You didn't scare me." I wasn't pouting at all. "Who are you?"

"Danni." She pushed her bangs out of the way. "I'm kinda new here, and wasn't really feeling up to dodgeball on my first day, so I figured I'd keep walking." She stared down at the ground, clearly avoiding eye contact with me or just feeling awkward looking at the tubes on my face. "I was wondering if you wanted some company."

I nodded slowly; she seemed harmless enough, and without music to listen to while I walk a partner might've been the next best thing. "Okay. Come on, there's a lot of ground to cover over and over again."

She laughed a cute little laugh and we started walking. I looked down at our feet as her worn-through Sketchers fell into step with my All Stars.


End file.
